the misadventures of someone who prolly STILL shouldn't be allowed to raise children...

Thursday, April 17, 2008

I am considering setting up a traveling midway. As you can see from the following conversation, I have a miracle man right here in my very home. So I just need to find a bearded lady, a sword swallower, top hat and jodhpurs and I am in business. Ladies and Gentlemen, step right this way...(if i may digress for a bit... go back and read that last sentence paragraph. anyone want to take bets on the number of folks who end up here on an interestingsearch for THAT one???)

[N. is just waking up in the other room. I am tending to the beans in the kitchen]

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Tomorrow is the fourth celebration of our day of union. (What most would call an "anniversary.") I call it our "day of union" because at the brunch reception following our wedding night, N.'s very sweet grandmother pulled me aside and asked if "everything went all right? and was it what I expected..."

At first, I thought that she was talking about the wedding itself. I had put a lot of time and planning into the biggest party of my life. Yes, I am THAT kind of person.

But no, she was talking about the OTHER thing... you know, relations, sealing the deal, locking it in... Which makes my initial response of "OH YES! It was the best night of my entire life..." even better.

Once I realized what was going on, I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth (or, for that matter, the truth)... that due to the fact that I was so punch drunk from eating four HUGE pieces of wedding cake and opening all of our presents and that N. was a little unstable after finishing off a bottle of champagne while he waited and watched me sit in a pile of wrapping paper squealing my head off like a newborn piglet... well, we both passed out.

Anyway, "day of our union." It goes without saying that N. is my best friend and the love of my life... but people who know us well (and spend time with us in the real world on a regular basis) often wonder how on earth two people who are so different can work together. I believe it is because he, above all others, knows me best and puts that knowledge to good use. Mostly to put me in my place with a good laugh. As evidenced by two recent conversations.

Picture it: Sunday night, while watching the "Weed*s" season 1 DVD

N: If I die early, I think that you should think about this option... I really think that you could move a lot of product and be really good at that business.

t'pon: What exactly, in my personality and demeanor, leads you to believe that I would make a great drug dealer?

N: Drug entrepreneur...

t'pon: po-TA-toe, po-TAH-toe...

N: Well, look at you and all of your friends... high-achieving, suburban yuppie-types who still like to pretend that they are all anti-establishment. You have the perfect pipeline.

t'pon: Who uses the term "yuppie?" 1987 called and they want their dictionary back...

N: po-TA-toe, po-TAH-toe...

Picture it: Tuesday night, while watching the "24" season 1 DVD

(yes, we are that behind)

t'pon: If I ever get kidnapped, I hope that I am not all weepy and whiny and acting like a big baby... Don't you think that I would be stronger than that?

[extremely long, extremely pregnant (like me) pause]

N: Yeah, it is probably best that you not get kidnapped at all...

t'pon: I agree... but why do you say that?

N: Well, you are the kind of person who will get shot in the face in the first 15 minutes for your smart ass mouth.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

N. and I discovered long ago that we are not good at making adult compromises. I use up a shocking amount of my "ability to play well with others" in the work environment. N. is a very stubborn individual, cut from a no-nonsense Midwestern cloth. Neither one of us were team athletes, so there goes that lesson. Ultimately, in the past when we have tried to maturely come to a consensus... we each feel like we have lost and slink away to our respective corners of the house to suck our teeth and say snide things under our breath. I know... tres grownup. But like I have always said, we prolly should not be raising children.

In order to maintain some semblance of happiness her at casa t'pon, we have developed two systems that aid us in the decision making process. The first is very straight-forward -- ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS. You can not argue with its simplicity. You can not argue with the results, it is nearly impossible (unless one party is drunk out of their mind) to get a true strategic edge, but you feel that you have more control than a simple roll of the dice. It works nearly every single time -- flawlessly.

In an attempt to solve another household dilemma we went to our second system, which we call "IF, THEN"... IF you want this, THEN I get this. I like to think of this as a way for us to evaluate how much we REALLY want the thing we are fighting for... and ultimately, everyone feels like they are winning something... OK, not so much the way reasonable, well-adjusted adults might act, but it works for us.

So, our most recent dilemma. Will we find out Banzo's sex? Bean was a mystery and I loved every minute of not knowing... as I have said before N. considered it a particular brand of torture that should be reserved only for the worst kind of person. We had originally planned to "R-P-S"this one out... but instead, I offered the option. IF N. really wants to know what we are having, I can deal with it... I guess that have had my surprise. But THEN, I would like to have exclusive naming rights for the Banzo Bean. That is right! Bold move, I know. I want to be able to pick the name for this kid sans input, sans opinion. And just to make sure that I don't get evil spam... N. is more than welcome to make suggestions and turn his nose up at my short list, I just don't have to listen. Honestly, the discussion and give and take for the last round of name selection was about all I could take. For someone who pretends to care so little about names, N. certainly had A LOT of opinions and precious little constructive to add to the discussion.

So, it looks like I will have a sex to share. Which leaves you folks only 5 weeks to place your bets. I will tell you that if we go by heart rate, N. will be pleased to not have to pay for a wedding. Anyone got a good feeling out there...

Sunday, March 19, 2006

So, here's a big secret for my faithful Wubbies... N. and I are trying. There I said it. I have probably jinxed us, but needless to say I gots to work some stuff out.

I was introduced to the world of blogging while I was looking for information the first time around. Based on my health history and everything my doctor had told me, we fully expected to struggle to get Bean. Mentally, I prepared for a very long, hard, and likely expensive road. We discussed the lengths to which we would be willing to go. I convinced N. to start trying a few months earlier than we had originally planned because it would likely take a lot longer to "git 'er done". Anyway, long story, only slightly shorter...

We pulled the goalie and BOOM... and after three days of trying, we started this crazy ride. N. loves to point out that he was cheated out of the only good part of trying to get pregnant... the month after month after month of the attempt. He also brags about being SUPER fertile. I guess that you can have it both ways after all... Congrats kiddo, your boys have got propellers.

...............

We have not been as fortunate this time around. And let me be clear, lest I offend... I am not trying to lay claim to any kind of fertility issue. I would not be so foolish as to compare our couple of months of half-hearted efforts with people who truly struggle trying to become parents. No, what I am referring to is more a matter of passion -- of commitment to the art of baby-making. (hehe, that sounds kind of dirty. Get your mind out of the gutter... I am not talking about THAT either.)

My head is not in the game. Last time, I was on top of all those little details you are on top of when you are working to have a baby -- things that I will not spell out for you as writing them down for others to read makes me feel all wormy inside (yes, even after having a team of perfect strangers become intimately familiar with my lady bits). But this go around, I seem to have developed a counting problem, along with a terrible case of ADHD. Ultimately, this begs the question, why?

At first, I thought that it was a simple case of being too busy with the kid we already have to be able to zero in on making the next. But as I thought more about it, could it be that I am not ready for this? Is it possible that this is some involuntary way of keeping me from setting off on a journey without the proper shots and paperwork?

We want to have our kids close together. And I love the idea of being pregnant again. I loved being pregnant, every minute of it. And I also know that I want MORE kids... sort of.

Here it is... I think. I am freaked out about being a mom to any more kids... Lets face it, being a mom to one is hard enough. Isn't that why most of us do this blogging thing? I mean, aside from the fame. As an outlet for all of the misgivings and doubts, a place to vent about the less than stellar moments in parenting?

I am an only child... I have no idea what it is like to have siblings, or sibling rivalry for that matter. I have no model for dealing with the needs of two young children and that kind of freaks me out.

When Bean was born, I was simply overwhelmed by my capacity for love and then, my capacity for WORRY. How can I possibly LOVE any more? How can I possibly WORRY any more? Quite honestly, there are days when I feel like I am barely holding shit together as it is and I think about how freaking overwhelmed I was when Bean was 8 weeks old. He is a pretty independent little man sometimes more than I would like, but there are days when all he wants to do is hang off of me. He is the light of my day and it is so incredibly important to me that he knows that, that he knows how much he has added to my life.

How does that work when there are two? How do you add another and not lose what you have with the first?

Can someone explain this to me so that I can get on with the business of building my family?

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

This morning, before the stomach funk took hold, Bean was engaged in his favorite early morning activity -- turning on and off the TV. I like to tell myself that his intense focus on this activity is not a sign of a budding love affair between a boy and his boob tube, but rather an exercise aimed at developing his sense of object permanence.

"Here's Matt and Al on the Luge looking dumb, and now I turn off the TV. Wait for it.... now, turn it back on... yep, there they are still looking dumb." (I have been told, many times in my life, that my ability to rationalize almost anything into a "learning experience" is truly a gift from God. I believe this to be true.)

I digress... at some point in the course of this very important brain development exercise (the more times you repeat something, the truer it becomes... I call this the WMD principle), something caught young Bean's eye... it was a boxer that looked remarkably like our dog, Nugget. I have mentioned before the love affair between these two. Bean became quite excited, banging on the TV as if he were making an attempt to get the dog's attention, much as he does multiple times a day when Nugget finds herself on the colder side of our glass doors.

At the sound of the banging, Nugget came prancing around the corner, throwing Bean into a tailspin. Once again, we could see his little brain working overtime, smoke pouring from his perfect little ears...

"How could it be that Nugget is standing here in this very room with me, but also inside this box frolicking in what I can only describe as the largest sand box I have ever seen? Do mine eyes deceive? Is it possible that this mere dog has mastered the art of being in two places at once, and if so, I must convince her to teach this skill to me... It could come in handy when those pesky naps interrupt my intense brain developing exercises with the TV?"

(see, Bean believes it... it is only a matter of time before y'all buy in and elevate me to Dr. Spo*ck status.)

I bring this little story up because it got me to thinking about the things that I believed as a child about the way that the world worked. For example, I, like (I assume) Bean, believed that everything that took place on the TV and/or radio was happening in real time. If I heard a song on the radio, it was because the band was right there in the studio... and when I heard that same song 15 minutes later on another station, well, they must be making the rounds. I also believed that the song "Secret Agent Man" was actually "Secret Asian Man." I figured out the whole radio/TV thing pretty fast... "Secret Asian Man," however, followed me to college.

N. thought that when people died in movies, plays, or on TV -- they were actually dying. He thought that, when you decided that you were ready to die, you could just show up and they would somehow work you in. As such, he determined that his plan would be to die in the production of "Bluejacket," a show about the Shawnee Indians in Ohio. He wanted to be the guy that got shot by the arrow and fell off the cliff, because, that would be a cool way to go.

Another friend, upon hearing that her baby brother was inside her mama's tummy and also hearing about the baby kicking and moving around, surmised that when she went to bed, her parents were opening up her mom's stomach and taking the baby out to play. After a few days of wrestling this over in her mind, she determined that this most certainly constituted "not sharing" and was, therefore, in direct violation of house rules.

So, what did you believe as a child? Come on, you can admit it... we are all friends here. We only mock because we love you and it will make you stronger.

Also, for those of you interested in creating real mind expanding opportunities for your children and exploring all that the patented "T'pon's Guide to Better Babies through Remote Controls" and its companion study guide "Some call it 'glazed over', we call it intense focus," have to offer, please email me for additional information. A seminar may be coming to your area shortly.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

While N. sits here on the couch, discussing the finer points of yesterday's football games with his mother while watching Penn State tickle the 'Noles... I am forced to find other things to occupy my time. You see, it is Bowl Season which means I could run around this house, naked and on fire, dangling Bean by the pinkie toe, whilst spending obscene amounts of money on frivolous, luxury items with horrible resale values and only illicit an irritated look and a terse "SHHHHH!" from my spouse. Last night the better part of my evening was spent listening to N. curse at the Irish (Notre Dame Irish, not persons descendant from the folk of Ireland) and offending Go*d himself.

I have come to discover that not only did I marry an angry football fan, but I could become an actual Football Widow... N. could seriously blow a major artery while watching one of these games.

As payback for the seven days of neglect, exposure to the most creative combinations of cursing this side of Deadw*ood, and the prospect that Bean could grow up barely remembering his father, I am letting y'all in on N.'s latest project, which I have dubbed... Project Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia.

For the past eight days, N. has attempted to grow himself a beard. This is a journey that we attempt each and every year about this time. And every year, we are hopeful that N. will achieve full growth, thus reaching an important milestone in the journey from boy to man.

And alas, we are always disappointed. He continues to be my man-boy.

Unfortunately, it did not occur to me to chart the day-to-day progress of Project Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia as I have never really had a venue for discussing N.'s pitiful beard-growing skills. I did, however, capture his beard last night in all its 19-year old, Appalachia trailer park trash glory. And herethey are for your viewing (and mocking) pleasure. If you look directly to the left, you may also be lucky enough to catch one going by on the photo badge. But try to head over the flickr, as I have included helpful study hints.

Now, in fairness to N., part of the problem is that some of his beard hairs are actually white-blond. That means you have to be practically licking his cheek to see them. Plus, the hair grows at an alarmingly varied pace, hence the striking resemblance to Shaggy.

Do you think that he will EVER be able to grow a respectable beard? Not that I really want him to... it is more that I want to know that if we are ever required to flee from a dubious group of sweaty and anxious men, N. could grow a decent disguise.

And hey, I bet that I can come up with a pretty groovy prize for the best nickname. And no, it isn't the sponge holders.

Monday, January 02, 2006

While my original intent in taking a short sabbatical from this blog was NOT to simply see how much y'all truly loved me... that certainly was a happy coincidence. Many thanks to all of you who have sent their well wishes (either by email or by comments) and requests to get back to blogging soon... how it made this wee heart swell. I am back. Well-rested and enjoying the final day of a holiday vacation that, dare I say, was a tad too long.

To those of you who are working to spread a rumor that I am with child again... well, let's just hope that my mother never figures out how to surf the net with any kind of purpose or efficiency. Have you not been reading along with the rest of us? What, in these varied tales, leads you to believe that the care of ANY additional children should be left to N. and me. No, Bean is lucky to have made it thus far with only a few hundred head wounds...

So let me say, in no uncertain terms, as of today at 11:30 AM CT... I am not "with" Bean the Second (or as he/she will be affectionately known, Garbanzo).

I am, however, woefully behind in sharing our ongoing adventures. I think that it would be overwhelming for me to try to jump in and give y'all a detailed account of the past 3 weeks -- holidays with my family, the nuances of Bean's development, and our descent into parental craziness. But, I would be remiss to simply gloss over the entire month. So, allow me to present Dec 2005 highlights, in an easy-to-follow, bullet-ed format.

N. is now a red belt, which in Special Combat Warrior School is one belt away from black. This is significant because when N. started this particular practice of maiming and disfiguring other humans, he informed me that he would be largely ineffective in deterring any attacks on our persons until he was a green belt (that was 2 belts ago). So, now that he is a red belt he knows just enough to be dangerous to everyone. I feel the need to issue a blanket warning to all would be assailants, attackers, burglars, perpetrators of general nuisance and irritation. Please don't come to our house. While I still contend that it is a 50/50 chance on who walks out with their femur in tact... I have seen our stuff. It just isn't worth it. And I never carry more than $1.65 in cash. Ever.

While we are on the subject of Special Combat Warriors... N. was also presented with the "Student of the Year" award for his commitment to the practice of this martial art. I am not lying when I say that he was a little more enthusiastic about this framed piece of paper than he was about the birth of the Bean. But in fairness to the man... Bean was kind of boring for the first few weeks/months and the award is pretty impressive in that frame.

I believe that the Christmas gifts from my MIL will most certainly win me some kind of "worst gift" award... This year's haul includes one of these (cause, you know... I like to take showers and then dry off), a trivet, and a set of lovely plastic sponge holders, complete with suction cups... I know. You don't know whether to laugh in my face or go around the corner and laugh behind my back. And it is not that I am ungrateful... just perplexed.

My mother is convinced that, if left to my own devices without constant hen-picking and intervention, I would eventually swell to the size of a small Orca.

Bean is 11 months old today. WOW. In one month's time, he has grown from a baby into a full-fledged toddler. He is walking (and falling) like a professional (stuntman), feeding himself all manner of table foods (he has developed quite a preference for black beans, which, in case you are wondering, take approx. 19 hours to move through the system of a small child), waving hello and good bye to every single freaking human being and dog everyone that we come into contact with throughout the course of the day until said person waves back or walks away totally irritated, and continuing his aggressive program of inter-species bonding. He has also developed the perfect shit-eater's grin, if I have ever seen one.

In keeping with his quick transition from infant to toddler, Bean also seems unnaturally attracted to the MOST dangerous item within reach. If offered a choice between a broken glass, a steak knife and a blow torch... you can bet that my kid is going for the fire hazard 10 out of 10 times. Not that he wouldn't also be perfectly happy with the knife... just not the same flair.

Three days after Christmas, we battled the croup (I am still recovering). I am told it was a mild case... whatever. Until last week, I had the distinct pleasure of not knowing what it is like to be hit in the face by projectile phlegm. Innocence lost. Many of you will recall that I am not much of a fan of cold weather. But last week, I was praying for temps below 40 degrees. Especially since my parents refuse to set their water heater any higher than 76 degrees, you can practically catch your death of cold just taking a shower.

I am never flying with Bean again unless he is sick or getting over the sick. You see, when he is sick, he will sleep -- happily for hours. When he is well, he must make eye contact and play the waving game with every person on the plane, at least once. And if, by the time round one is complete, we aren't in the final approach, well, I hear that repetition is ALL THE RAGE with kids this age.

During this vacation, I was forced to watch nearly 7 hours of poker, 48 hours of football, 5.75 hours of Teletu*bbies (don't judge, if it was the only thing that would silence that baby after 2 hours of whining, screaming and coughing, you would make sweet love to all of the telet*ubbies) and 3 hours of penguins dying in Antarctica.

I know that in my last entry, I rather cryptically referred to changes in store for us (thus leading to the aforementioned baby rumor). The changes are still on the horizon... a lot of it is still up in the air with respect to timing and impact on the inhabitants of casa t'pon, so I have to stay a little tight lipped for now.

Needless to say, 2006 should be a good year. Stick around for the ride, won't you?

Monday, September 19, 2005

Ok, so I am back. Back from the spa and back to work. All in all the "weekend of me" was a success... I feel relaxed, refreshed, and ready to roll with the whole mommy-thing again. I have decided rather than provide a blow-by-blow of the weekend, I will hit you with the high points.

I consider it a personal insult to go to a spa and NOT get a hot stone massage. If you have never had one you need to stop what you are doing and make an appointment right now. It is, in fact, the measuring stick by which I measure all spa experiences. I had the hot stone on day one of the "weekend of me" which could have set me up for an overall disappointing weekend... glad to report that The Crossings in Austin receives 3.25 stars (on a scale of four... I have never given a four, perfection is oh-so-elusive).

43 hours is A LOT of time to spend without a TV... or a newspaper. period.

If your skin has not seen the sun in over 1.5 years, it is possible to burn through 45 sunblock.

This spa is also a "Wellness" center... which means (and I apologize in advance if this offends someone, but whatever) there were a lot of bell-ringing, patchouli-stinking, unshaven, over-the-hill hippies there trying to get their organs and spirits and shit aligned. This is not my crowd... VW and I spent the better part of the weekend doing our best to NOT get kicked out for bending someone's aura.

The good thing about over-the-hill hippies is that they have an incredible lack of self-consciousness when it comes to their bodies. While not easy on the eyes... after a weekend there my issues with my fat pants... no more. Better boost to my self-confidence than 10 months of J*enny Craig and Sou*th Beach.

A note to the staff at the Treehouse Cafe, while we certainly enjoyed the free WiFi access that you provided this weekend (as we were the only two people who seemed at all connected to the outside world by something other than a chakra) have you even listened to the words to the simpering folk crap you were playing at deafening levels this weekend. "Goodbye sweet earth. It was good to know you. We should have taken better care, but our tanks were empty?" Is that really the best that you can do? Joni Mitchell would drop kick your ass for that.

And finally, I did not realize that I was required to pass Anatomy 101 to get a freaking facial. Apparently, by shining different color lights on my face while it is covered in an algae mask, it is possible to bring my organs in balance with the rest of my body. I just wanted by pores sucked clean. I was not aware that my organs were out of balance. I was instructed to picture each organ being bathed in its corresponding light color... my first color, red. my first organ, gall bladder. Where the fuck is my gall bladder and what does it look like? Bunk, all of it. And now, I haven't taken a shit since I left that place and I used to be as regular as the gas bill. Perhaps, I am being punished.

On an only slightly related note... N. is the luckiest mother f'er I know. Everything comes easily to him. Have you seen those Staples commercials, with the "easy" button? Yeah, well that is based on my husband's life.

When I returned home, I found everything in working order, bean was dressed and happily stuffing Cheerios in his mouth. Although not all was as I had left it. Apparently, N. has somehow convinced Bean that waking before 6 AM is a waste of perfectly good darkness and that 7 AM is a much more reasonable time for food and frolicking.

While this is a great development and I am certainly grateful, what the fuck? I spend countless hours pouring over books to figure out how to get this kid to sleep, I set schedules, establish routines, beg, plead, and make deals with the devil... no dice. N. gets half of a weekend alone with him and presto! it's done. I asked him how he did it and he just shrugged and said "i don't know... it just happened."

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

This past weekend, the place of our first date burned down. It is not as if this place has become some kind of favorite joint for us, we have been back maybe once since that fateful evening. To be honest, I am not sure how we even decided on that particular restaurant in the first place. Neither one of us would place it in our top 10 favorite places to eat in this town. Nevertheless, that is where we sat on the evening of May 1, 1999 -- laughing, getting to know each other and sealing a lifelong bond.

There are people that believe there is but one single soul-mate for each person, destined to spend their lives searching for and then supporting each other. Other people believe in love at first sight, over and over and over again. There are those that believe that to expect two people to live in a mutually exclusive relationship for a lifetime is like trying to peacefully co-exist with a hungry lion while nursing a gaping wound... it will always end badly.

I believe that sometimes there is a moment between two people that, on some level, seals a bond between them. They may not end up being married, they may never even make it past the first date, but something will always exist in that unique moment between the two. N. and I experienced that moment on our first date, over food.

There is a great story about how I actually ended up on the date with N., but I will save that for another day.

Things were going well, we were exchanging stories about mutual acquaintances from college days and telling tales about our families and childhood. We were clicking and all seemed to be going very, very well. And then it happened. Without warning, I found myself leaning over the table with my fork stuck in a piece of the meat on N.'s plate. I looked up and was greeted by what can only be described as a puzzled and slightly concerned look on N.'s face. You could almost see the bubble over his head "Is she really eating off my plate?" You see, as you may have already surmised, I never asked to try his food. I made no verbal indication that I was about to cross the thresh hold of his personal space and spear a piece of pork, claiming it mine. Also, we had not yet kissed, so personal space and germs had not yet been exchanged.

I feel that I should interject here and add that in my family, sharing food is a given. You really don't have a choice, every meal is family style. This is due largely to the fact, that my mother, Chicken Little, is always convinced that those around her "ordered better" than she did. Lately, I have started to adopt this neurosis. I can see it coming on. At present, I am paralyzed with anxiety when ordering food until I know what everyone else at the table is ordering. This is NOT the case in N.'s family.

I was faced with an instant dilemma. There was no way that I could pretend like this wasn't happening. The look on N.'s face clearly indicated that not only had he registered what was going on, he was also in the process of filing this little tidbit away for future evaluation. As I saw it, there were three options.

Continue as if this was totally normal behavior, work through the already extremely pregnant and awkward pause, eat the food and continue with the conversation (after all, it was very likely I would NOT be going out with him again after this).

Politely extract the food from my fork, shamefully apologizing for my less-than-perfect manners and hope that the apology would suffice.

Stammer like a raving lunatic, quickly remove my hand from his side of the table, leaving my fork, still lodged in his meat bit, rocking back and forth -- a moving tribute to my transgression.

Clearly, I choose option #3. I mean, isn't it obvious.

It was his reaction that told me that he was the one for me. He just smiled, shook his head, and handed me back my fork with the food on it. Somewhere inside of me, I knew that this was a look that I would love to see everyday of my life.

The date continued through a series of other less-than-desirable events, not the least of which was meeting one of my friends and her eventual husband. They proceeded to get into a drunk argument about the true foundation of American democracy, the model of democratic society as built by the Greeks, or Judeo-Christian moral code. Put a bullet in my head. UGH. I was sure that I would never hear from this guy again.

We have been together ever since.

So while we have not been back to that place, I will miss it nonetheless. even if they rebuild, it will not be the same. We will not be able to go back 20 years from now and argue about which booth we sat in when I speared his heart.

I love you, babe. Everything will be great, as long as we have each other, and lots of snacks to share.